


Raise The Bar

by RainyDayDecaf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gym AU, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance, and they were gym partners (oh my god they were gym partners), the focus of this fic is the romance rest assured, very brief mention of crowley being underweight/not eating enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26674234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayDecaf/pseuds/RainyDayDecaf
Summary: Crowley didn't know what to expect when he joined the gym on his doctor's orders.  He certainly didn't expect to be swept of his feet by a man wearing tartan trainers.Or, the Gym AU that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 246





	Raise The Bar

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I should tag this with eating disorder or not, but there is a very brief mention of Crowley being too skinny and not eating enough. It's not the focus of the fic, just a bit of background on the character. Likewise, Aziraphale is described as heavyset and out of shape, but this is not necessarily a negative descriptor. Rest assured, the focus of this fic is the love story!

“Right, then,” Crowley muttered to himself. He surveyed the main floor of the gym before him, the myriad of machines and weights and ropes and bars and balls at his disposal. Many were currently in use by sweaty, serious-faced people radiating a powerful Don’t Talk To Me aura. On first glance, Crowley fit in very well among them, with his skin-tight leggings and muscle shirt and very expensive trainers (everything in black, of course, Crowley wouldn’t be caught dead in those bright, garish patterns on display at the shop). With his wireless earbuds snugly in place and his smartphone strapped to his upper arm, he was the absolute picture of fitness. He could _be_ one of those gym advertisements plastered up on the wall right now.

Jaw clenched, towel and water bottle in tow, Crowley swaggered his way across the main floor. The back of his neck prickled from imaginary stares (or at least he hoped they were imaginary), and he did his best not to look around or catch anyone’s eye. That seemed to be the norm here—everyone was focused on their own business, except for one or two groups who had clearly come in together. Crowley ducked around a trio of men who had taken over one of the bench presses and were egging on one of their number to take on more weight. Not far from them, a pair of women were doing pilates side by side and somehow still holding a full conversation despite how out of breath they were. On the upper floor, he could see through a few open doors into some classes in progress, some yoga and some aerobics. He had even heard there was an indoor track and a swimming pool somewhere in this building, if he could be bothered to find them.

Where was he even supposed to start? Crowley perused the equipment around him with a faint frown. He had a vague idea of how to work most of the machines, and there were all kinds of helpful posters on the walls, but something about the sheer _number_ of choices was giving him decision paralysis. Maybe he ought to have sprung for a personal trainer, someone to talk him through the process, but for some reason he’d let his pride convince him it couldn’t be that hard to muddle through.

Under the pretense of fiddling with his phone, Crowley eyed the cardio machines. Treadmills, he decided. Those were basically self explanatory, right? Just turn them on and run, no thinking involved. He beelined for the treadmills, skirting around the dumbbell station where a heavyset man was doing squats in front of a mirror, and Crowley allowed himself a moment of secondhand embarrassment over the other man’s choice of attire. (Really, the cream and orange tracksuit was bad enough, but to pair it with _tartan trainers_ was just a crime against fashion. Who had let the poor bloke walk out of the house like that?)

Only two of the treadmills were free, a pair at the very end. Crowley picked one, settled his water bottle in the holder, and studied the dark display. It took him a moment to find the green button labeled START, and he pressed it decisively.

Which did absolutely nothing.

Crowley pressed it a few more times, then pressed every single other button just in case. Still no response. He gave the display a little smack, hissing under his breath, and resisted the urge to peek around and make sure no one had noticed he was having issues. He was _not_ about to meekly ask for help on the first bloody machine, he wasn’t that hopeless!

“Excuse me, but I think that one is broken.”

“What?” Crowley said, looking up.

It was Tartan Trainers. The dumbbells were nowhere in sight now, and he stood at a respectable distance from Crowley’s treadmill, offering up a friendly smile that immediately made him feel like an asshole for judging him by his fashion sense. Not that it was any better at a closer proximity. Crowley thought he might just cry if he had to stare at that tartan for too long. He focused on the man’s eyes instead (which were a very pretty dove grey and entirely too distracting).

“It’s been broken for some time, I think,” Tartan Trainers said with a nod at the unresponsive treadmill. “They had someone working on it the other day, but clearly they weren’t able to get it up and running.”

“Clearly,” Crowley said, glowering at the display. He snatched up his water bottle and switched to the other treadmill. “Thanks, mate.”

“Not at all.” The man smiled at him again and retreated, off in the direction of the water fountains. Crowley watched him go for a moment before he shook himself and pressed the START button on the new treadmill. This time, it started up without any issue, and he eased out a sigh of relief. Determined to get this over with and get back to his Netflix marathon, Crowley set the timer for thirty minutes and started running.

* * *

Four minutes later, Crowley frantically lowered the speed to a slow walk and gulped his water, gasping for breath. How, he thought, _how_ did anyone do this? He couldn’t even run for five minutes, let alone the thirty he had planned. It was impossible. It was _torture._ Someone up there was having a laugh, he was sure of it. The human body was not designed to take this much abuse in the name of fitness.

Once he had caught his breath, Crowley gritted his teeth and increased the speed again. He lasted exactly one minute and two seconds before he gave up and shut the machine off, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Treadmills, he decided, could burn in hell. He wandered over to try the ellipticals instead. They looked a bit easier to handle.

“Hello again!”

Crowley blinked up at Tartan Trainers, who was in the act of stepping off the elliptical himself. “Er, hi. You alright?”

“Oh, yes!” Tartan Trainers said, completely belying how he was huffing and dabbing at his red face with his sleeve. Crowely watched him sink onto the nearest bench, faintly alarmed by the sight of his legs shaking. “Just… just overdid it a bit, I think?”

“You want me to get someone?” Crowley looked around, but didn’t see a single employee in sight. But there _was_ a defibrillator on the wall, the sight of which just made him even more nervous.

Tartan Trainers waved him off. “No, no, it’s not as dire as all of that. I’m just, _hoo,_ not accustomed to cardio training. These machines are not for the faint of heart, let me tell you! My thighs are burning like nothing you would believe…”

Crowley eyed the seemingly-harmless elliptical. “Right, uh. Good to know.”

“Have you been coming here long?” Tartan Trainers asked. Still all smiles despite the sweat plastering his curly hair to his forehead. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“Uh, yeah, uh.” Crowley stuttered, frantically trying to come up with something cooler to say than _I’ve never done this before and I already hate it and want to go home._ “Just joined up. Seemed like a decent place.”

Tartan Trainers offered him a hand. “Well, I’m Aziraphale. I’ve only just restarted my membership, so I suppose that makes me a newcomer as well.”

Right well, apparently this was a thing that was happening. Crowley shook his hand, because he might be a self absorbed asshole but he wasn’t _rude._ “Crowley. Nice to meet you. Just restarted, you said?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I know I don’t look it now, but I used to be very disciplined. Boxing, competitive weight lifting, that sort of thing. I even tried fencing for a time, that was delightful fun! But then I was promoted at my old job, which left me very little time for recreation, and now… well, here I am ten years later starting at the beginning again. I feel I hardly know what I’m doing half the time.”

“...you seemed to be doing well enough for yourself,” Crowley offered. He slouched against the elliptical Aziraphale had been using, gladly seizing on the conversation as an excuse to put off more exercise. “Saw you with the dumbbells earlier, there’s no way I could do that. You're in much better shape than I am."

“You’re very kind,” Aziraphale said. He eyed Crowley up and down, the flick of his gaze so quick and subtle that Crowley couldn’t tell if he was actually being checked out or if Aziraphale had merely blinked. “But I doubt that. You seem like the sort who runs marathons on the weekends and has the metabolism of an Olympian to match…”

Crowley choked on a disbelieving laugh and actually had to sit down to recover from that. “Oh, I’m _not,_ believe me. You want to know something, Aziraphale? I’m here because my doctor ordered it.”

“Surely not! You’re the picture of health!”

“Severely underweight, is what I am,” Crowley confided. He held out his slim, bony wrists. “Skipped more meals than I've eaten in the past few years, and I can’t remember the last time I did anything more strenuous than stand in line at the coffee shop. Doctor Nutter gave me a stern talking to, warned me to start taking care of myself and put some meat on my bones, Or Else.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, surprise coloring his tone. But not judgement, which was a relief. Crowley had had enough of other people trying to give him advice… or worse, insisting his doctor was an actual nutter and that he ought to ignore her and stay skinny no matter what it did to his overall health. “Well, I wish you luck in your endeavor, my dear.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Crowley couldn’t tell if that had been a dismissal or not, so in a fit of anxiety he shot up to his feet and made some vague gestures in the direction of the elliptical. “I’m just gonna…”

“Oh yes, of course, don’t let me hold you up,” Aziraphale said. He wiped his face one more time and climbed to his feet with a wince. “I’ll just… rest a bit more, I think, and then head home. But I do hope to see you again, Crowley.”

Crowley nodded, once again left watching Aziraphale meander away. He turned to the elliptical, drumming his fingers on the handle, and whipped around before he could think better of it.

“Could you maybe… show me?”

Aziraphale glanced back at him, puzzled. “Show you what?”

“The weights,” Crowley said, horrifically self conscious as he struggled to line the words up and spit them out. “All the… dumbbells and whatnot. Could you show me? How to use them? Sometime, maybe, if you’ve got time, if we both happen to be here…”

“I would love to!” Aziraphale said. He came back to Crowley, beaming brightly and fiddling with a ring on his hand. “That’s a wonderful idea. You know, they do encourage us to bring in friends and form ‘gym partnerships’ to keep ourselves accountable.”

“To bring in more customers, more like,” Crowley said under his breath. “Sure, yeah. That sounds great. Gym partners it is.”

“Let me give you my number.”

“Oh, you really don’t have to…”

“I insist. We can coordinate our schedules and try to come in at the same times every week. This will be fun!”

 _Blimey, what have I gotten myself into?_ Crowley thought as he tapped Aziraphale’s number into his phone and let the other man talk his ear off for another five minutes about reps and sets and other terms he had no idea what to make of. By the time they parted ways again, the elliptical that Crowley had been planning to use was occupied, so he had no choice but to return to the dreaded treadmill to finish his workout. Which he did (at a reasonable walking speed) and pondered the whole time whether or not Aziraphale had really been checking him out earlier. And whether he would terribly mind if the answer was _yes._

* * *

Their first attempt at working out together was, to put it mildly, a bit of a disaster.

“Can you at least put _some_ weight on it?” Crowley pleaded yet again. On the bench press beside him, the empty barbell mocked him. “I can’t just use the bar by itself. That’s ridiculous. I’ll look ridiculous!”

“No, you won’t,” Aziraphale reassured him. “Everyone starts out with just the bar by itself, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll add more weights once I have a better idea of your current baseline.”

“My current baseline,” Crowley grumbled. He straddled the bench and laid down, hands gripped tight around the bar while Aziraphale spotted him. “Show you. I’m not some frail little… I’ve lifted plenty of heavy things, this will be nothing.”

He lifted the bar and squawked when it tilted sideways and slipped from his hands to land on the floor with a heavy _clang!_ Everyone stared.

“Nothing to see here!” Aziraphale said, a winning smile plastered on his face. He knelt down to comfort Crowley, who had buried his face in his hands in mortification.

“I’m _weak._ Completely useless! Can’t even lift the bloody bar!”

“That’s my fault, dear fellow, I should have started you out with something easier.” Aziraphale fetched him a pair of dumbbells, the lightest to be found in the entire gym. Crowley made a face, but dutifully lifted and lowered and breathed as Aziraphale coached him through the motions. His arms were aching by the time he was through the sets, yet he felt ridiculously accomplished all the same.

“Well done!” Aziraphale said proudly. “Just keep this up and you’ll be stronger before you know it.”

“Be throwing that bar across the room just as soon as I have the muscles,” Crowley said with a heated glare at the barbell.

“It’s good to have a goal to strive for. Now, on to lunges?”

“I _hate_ lunges,” Crowley whined. Aziraphale clucked in sympathy, but he had learned in the first five minutes that Crowley hated everything, so he didn’t deign to comment. Together, they lunged their way across the mat and lunged their way back, then worked on sit-ups and push-ups until they were both sprawled out groaning and cursing everything that lived and breathed.

“You’re doing very well,” Aziraphale said to him over and over, and Crowley wasn’t sure how to feel about his internal reaction to the praise. It made him want to do more, do better, just to earn even more of it, which was probably an inappropriate reaction to have to his gym partner that he barely knew.

They did get to know each other though, as time went on. They met in the lobby at least three to four days a week, most often in the mornings, though sometimes Crowley elected to skip the gym in favor of sleeping in. But Aziraphale was undeterred and simply bullied him (nicely) into coming in on the weekends to make up for it. And well, it wasn’t like Crowley had anything better going on, so he sucked it up and went to join Aziraphale. Together, they fumbled their way through warm-up stretches and weight training before ending with at least ten to twenty minutes of cardio on the treadmill.

Ah, the treadmill, Crowley’s sworn nemesis. But at least he and Aziraphale were in the same boat there. Neither of them could manage a decent jog, so instead they power-walked side by side, chatting about their jobs and occasionally about their lives. He learned that Aziraphale worked as a rare book dealer and did some restoration work, and he was aiming to perhaps one day open his own bookshop. Which Crowley considered far more admirable than his own job as a salesman. Just a cog in the machine, he had joked, easily replaced if he didn’t make his quota. But Aziraphale had taken exception to that and insisted Crowley was very special and not so easily replaced. (Crowley had a hard time sleeping that night, Aziraphale’s fervent declaration spinning in his head and following him into his dreams).

Before he knew it, two weeks had passed and he and Aziraphale had attained something like a casual friendship. Each time they left the gym, limping in exhaustion and desperately in need of a shower, they took their time crossing the carpark, drawing out the conversation by mutual silent agreement.

“I think I might give the ellipticals another try next time,” Aziraphale declared.

Crowley scoffed, gamely letting himself be drawn into this topic again. “You almost twisted your ankle last time,” he said. “I’m not having them call you an ambulance because you fell off the machine and cracked your head open.”

“But I really think I’m gaining more endurance!” Aziraphale said. “And my balance is improving as well. I’m sure I can handle ten minutes. It’s such a good workout for the thighs.”

“You and your thighs,” Crowley sighed. “Suit yourself, but if you bleed out in my arms, I’ll be too traumatized to enter a gym ever again.”

“Oh, we can’t have _that,_ now can we?” Aziraphale teased. He touched Crowley’s arm by way of parting, just a brief contact that had no right to make him feel so warm and tingly. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Sure, see you then.” Crowley waved and sauntered off to his car. As he leaned over to stow his gym bag in the back seat, he sneaked a glance over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale hastily averted his gaze and hurried off down the street to the bus stop.

Crowley grinned and didn’t stop grinning all the way home.

* * *

 _He’s not even my type,_ Crowley tried to reason with himself while he stood in line at Starbucks one Saturday morning. Ask him on any random day and Crowley would usually insist he wasn’t into big, burly men. He liked his partners tall and lithe, with defined abs and strong jaws and smoldering eyes. He was weak-kneed for the James Bond type and wasn’t ashamed at all to admit it.

But Aziraphale was no James Bond. More like the complete opposite in every respect. Short and a little doughy around the middle, kind and soft-spoken with terrible fashion sense. He was like… like one of those angels from Renaissance paintings, all glowing radiance and perfectly manicured hands and twinkling eyes that could bring him running with the slightest _come hither_ look…

“...God, I’m hopeless.”

The cashier stared at him. “Sorry, sir? What was that?”

“Caramel frappuccino, grande, extra whip,” Crowley mumbled, hardly paying attention to whether he was putting the right words in the right order. He must have succeeded because the cashier had no further comments. Crowley’s eyes wandered to the food menu, and he hesitated as his mind drifted back to a conversation from a few days ago, Aziraphale bemoaning how much he missed having dessert on a regular basis... 

“One of those, too.”

Five minutes later, Crowley strolled into the gym with his frappuccino in one hand and a little pastry bag dangling from the other.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded when they met at the front doors. “You said you’d sworn off that coffee place! You’re meant to be eating healthy foods!”

“Don’t worry, I brought you something too.”

“That is not—you brought me something?”

Crowley held out the pastry bag. With a stern look, Aziraphale took the bag and opened it. The delicious scent of warm cinnamon apple tart floated from the bag and filled the lobby. Crowley could practically see everyone in the vicinity salivating and glaring at him for daring to bring forbidden fruit into their bastion of weight loss and restrictive diets.

Aziraphale closed the bag. “Very well, you’re forgiven,” he said primly.

Crowley laughed. “So what are we doing today?”

“Well, ah.” Aziraphale suddenly looked a bit uncertain. “I actually thought, seeing as it’s the weekend... perhaps we could do something a little different?”

Crowley nodded, a little nonplussed. “Sure. You know me, up for anything. What’d you have in mind?”

* * *

“This doesn’t… feel like exercise.”

“Oh, but it is!” Aziraphale insisted. He tossed the last bite of his apple tart to the ducks in the pond, chuckling when the birds scrambled over themselves to eat it. “This is essential to our health. It’s not all slaving away over machines, you know. The human body also needs fresh air and sunlight, social interaction, mental stimulation. A walk in the park is perfect for all of those things. We’re renewing our spirits with every step we take…”

“I think I just stepped in dog poo,” Crowley said. He scraped the bottom of his shoe on a nearby bench.

“Oh look, there’s a street performer!” Aziraphale looped an arm through his and dragged him over to watch someone pretend to be a living statue. Crowley sighed, but went along. This _was_ much nicer than the gym. All around them were families and groups of friends and other couples (or just couples, in general, because he and Aziraphale weren’t a _couple,_ nope, not going there), and no one was breaking their backs trying to prove something or impress someone or shave off that extra pound. Out here, people were just… being people. Playing games, having picnics, feeding the ducks. Crowley hadn’t even known that people still fed ducks. It seemed like the quaint sort of thing that belonged in family films.

“You want to grab lunch?” Crowley said as the hours wore on and his newfound appetite, courtesy of working out regularly, made its needs known.

Aziraphale jerked a bit. “Lunch?” he said, the word coming out as a squeak.

“Yeah, we can get fish and chips or something, I’ll pay,” Crowley said. And he only realized then, after seeing the flicker of alarm recede from Aziraphale’s face, that _lunch_ could easily be interpreted as _date_ which had _not at all_ been what he was going for. “Or not! We could just…”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said quickly. He darted a look at Crowley, wetting his lips, which was _entirely_ unfair to Crowley’s delicate sensibilities. “Lunch. That sounds like a perfect idea.”

So they got fish and chips and had lunch on a bench in the park. Crowley spent at least half of it terrified that this was actually a date and the other half convinced he was misinterpreting the whole thing. This was just lunch, between two friends. Acquaintances, really. They were both still wearing their gym clothes, for Heaven’s sake. Aziraphale had refused to surrender the eye-bleeding tartan trainers, but his tracksuit this time was a more subdued navy with white stripes, so not the worst thing in the world. But Crowley noticed after a time that Aziraphale seemed to be suffering under the hot sun.

“You can take off the jacket, if you like,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale squirmed a little. “I… could,” he faltered. “The thing is, I didn’t put much thought into my wardrobe this morning. I’m concerned the shirt I’m wearing might be… a tad inappropriate?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Inappropriate for who?”

“Erm.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a wary look before shucking off his jacket. It took Crowley a moment to actually look at the shirt, so distracted was he by the flex of Aziraphale’s broad shoulders and back (dear _God,_ it was a good thing he covered up most of the time or Crowley would have embarrassed himself ages ago), but eventually he leaned over to take a better look. And he had to cackle at the florid rainbow text on the front spelling out _The First Pride Was A Riot._

“Ahh, _that_ kind of inappropriate!” Crowley said, still cackling. “A pun and an educational message all in one. I like it.”

Aziraphale relaxed at once, a shy smile gracing his lips. “Really?”

“You know, I’ve got a shirt kind of similar,” Crowley said and hoped his completely unsubtle message was getting across. “Wear it all the time. Maybe I’ll show you sometime?”

“I hope you do,” Aziraphale said. They definitely had a Moment then, sitting on that park bench and grinning at each other like absolute fools.

Then a rubber ball hit Crowley in the back of the head and there went the Moment. They spent a brief time speaking with the boy who had thrown the ball, apologies giving way to polite conversation while the boy’s dog (named Dog) yapped at their heels. By then, the day was getting on, and both be and Aziraphale had other things to get done, so it was back to the gym where they reluctantly parted ways.

“Thank you for lunch,” Aziraphale said.

“Thank you for, uh, the walk in the park,” Crowley said. _Don’t stare at his chest, don’t stare at his biceps, don’t think about how he could pick you up and fling you into bed easy as anything._ "It was nice to, you know, get away from the gym."

Aziraphale twisted his ring, first looking at his feet and then looking up at Crowley, seeming to struggle with his words which was most unlike him. Crowley waited, with all the patience he could muster, and willed his (friend? gym partner? more?) to say whatever it was he wanted to say.

“Until tomorrow, then?”

Crowley wilted a little, but smiled. “Yeah. Tomorrow. See you then, Aziraphale.”

Another touch on the arm. This time a lingering one, accompanied by a gentle squeeze. And Aziraphale walked to the bus stop. Crowley went to his car, slumped over the steering wheel and groaned. He switched on the radio.

“Freddie, I want that man to bend me over the bench press. Is that too much to ask?”

 _“I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things,”_ Freddie crooned, _“we can do the tango just for two…”_

* * *

“And now we exhale. Take your time as we transition to downward facing dog…”

“Not as sexy as it sounds,” Crowley muttered and heard Aziraphale stifle a laugh. The free beginner yoga class had sounded mildly interesting when the receptionist was handing out flyers, but now that they were here, Crowley was having a hard time seeing the appeal. It was just a lot of… breathing and stretching and trying to keep his balance in weird positions. And it _hurt._ His knees were killing him, his abs were screaming, and he was _bored._

Aziraphale didn’t seem to be enjoying himself either, to judge by the frustrated grimace on his face as he readjusted his downward dog. Crowley caught his eye and shot him a commiserating look. _Want to get out of here?_ he mouthed.

Aziraphale shrugged. “Rude to leave now,” he said under his breath.

Of course. Aziraphale was never the type who could just walk out on a class. He had this weird hang-up where he didn’t care about what other people thought of him, but he did deeply care about what other people thought that _he_ thought of them. It was a little complicated. Suffice to say, Aziraphale didn’t like hurting anyone’s feelings. Which could sometimes lead to the two of them sticking out a class like this even when neither of them were enjoying it and they would both rather be somewhere far away.

But thankfully, Crowley had come prepared this time. As they transitioned into something called reclining pigeon pose, he slipped a hand in his pocket.

“Get a good grip and feel that deep stretch…”

A fart ripped through the room. Someone gasped, someone else laughed, and most everyone froze.

“A good stretch,” the instructor went on. “You should really feel it in the back of your…”

Another fart, louder and longer.

“If anyone needs to leave, that’s perfectly fine,” the instructor said, her voice shaking a little with repressed laughter. “When we’re doing these types of stretches, it’s natural for the digestive system to sometimes…”

Three farts now, in very quick succession, and a fourth very long one. At least a third of the class fell out of the pose, some blatantly looking around for the culprit.

Aziraphale huffed. “Really, now. Has someone eaten something questionable?”

“I doubt it,” Crowley said, just a little too innocently. When Aziraphale whipped around, he flashed the little remote control he was palming in his hand.

“Crowley, you _didn’t…”_

He pressed the button. The next string of farts were entirely too musical to be genuine, and now the instructor had officially given up on her lesson, hiding a hysterical giggles in her hands while the rest of the students banded together to seek out the source of the flatulence. They found the little speaker eventually, hidden inside one of the fake potted plants, but by then Crowley and Aziraphale had made their escape into the gym lobby.

“I can’t _believe_ you!” Aziraphale cried, though he had a difficult time acting scandalized when he was half collapsed against Crowley and laughing his head off. “You had that planned from the start, you must have!”

“Just as a backup plan,” Crowley insisted. “Just in case we had to make a quick exit.”

“We were nearly done with the lesson!”

“You weren’t having fun. Neither was I. Let’s face it, half the class were probably grateful to cut out early. I saved them the trouble.”

Aziraphale gave his arm a little shove. “You are an unrepentant menace,” he said.

“Oh, the _worst,”_ Crowley agreed with the most unrepentant smirk in his arsenal. “Black-hearted troublemaker, that’s me. No redemption in sight.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, still chortling, “I’m very glad you’re on my side, then.”

“Course I am. We’re friends, right? I’m always on your side.”

Aziraphale looked at him. One of those Looks that Crowley had become very familiar with and that had a way of making him freeze on the spot and quiver with a weird blend of excitement and dread.

“Friends.” And something about the way Aziraphale said it, the way he shaped the word around his lips, made it sound a lot more intimate than Crowley had meant. Not that he minded at all. “Yes. I quite like the sound of that.”

“Yeah,” Crowley eked out. “Um. Lunch?”

“Lead the way,” Aziraphale said, though it was very much him steering Crowley to the door. “I’m in the mood for seafood, I think. Have you ever tried oysters?”

* * *

He was about to make a terrible mistake. Crowley twisted this way and that, scrutinizing himself in the dressing room mirror. He had initially planned on buying a few more plain shirts and another pair of leggings, in his usual identical black, just so he wouldn’t have to wash his gym clothes twice a week. But, by a small whim of fate, the shop had been sold out of his preferred leggings.

What had been on display instead was something Crowley should have taken one look at and thrown back on the shelf. Yet here he was, staring at his ass in a pair of navy blue leggings covered in an explosion of stars and comets and galaxies. Like he could _ever_ pull this off. No one could pull off this tacky, tasteless pattern. The tails of the comets had _glitter_ on them.

But his inner child wailed and stomped his feet and begged his grown-up self to buy the leggings. Not like he had to actually wear them to the gym, he reasoned. He could just wear them at home when he was sprawled out on the couch watching Golden Girls reruns. A little secret for himself, along with his astronomy books and the glow-in-the-dark stars inside his closet. No one would ever have to know.

...well, there was at least _one_ person who he could maybe trust with this. Crowley sent a text to Aziraphale.

 _im about to make a mistake_ _  
__talk me out of it?_

They had only recently started texting rather than calling. Aziraphale had been leery at first, until Crowley walked him through the talk-to-text feature, which had apparently simplified the process enough for Aziraphale to be comfortable. Though he still took the time to check his messages for proper punctuation before sending them to Crowley. Completely unnecessary, but that was Aziraphale for you.

Almost five minutes passed before his mobile chimed.

_My dear, we’ve talked about this. Put down the Starbucks and step away._

Crowley chuckled. He struck a pose, took a mirror selfie and sent it before he could second-guess himself.

 _what do you think?_ _  
__too much for the gym?_

He sank down on the spindly chair in the corner to wait for a response, plucking sadly at the glittery fabric of the leggings. He wasn’t prepared when his phone chimed less than four seconds later.

_YES_

_yes its too much?_

_NO_

_um?????_

_Forgive me. I got a bit excited._ _  
__It’s not too much at all! I think you look positively scrumptious!_

“Scrumptious?” Crowley said, incredulous.

 _You should buy them._ _  
__At once._ _  
__They belong on your legs._

 _lmao okay_ _  
__but seriously i dont want people staring at me_

Aziraphale’s reply took a little longer this time and left Crowley gnawing on his lip and jiggling his leg as he watched the triple dots.

_If they stare, it will only be because you are stunning to behold. You should never let the opinions of others dictate what you wear. Crowley, my dear, do you want the Van Gogh inspired trousers?_

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, heart thrashing under his ribs.

 _yes_ _  
__yes i want the trousers_

 _Then get them and wear them proudly._ _  
__If it makes you feel more comfortable, I will wear something twice as loud and colorful and draw all eyes to me._

 _your the best angel_ _  
__FUCK_ _  
__Azirale_ _  
__Azrahpale_ _  
__AZIRAPHALE_ _  
__GOT IT THAT TIME STUPID SPELL CHECK_

_Oh my word, you seem to be struggling._

Crowley whimpered and let his head thunk against the wall behind him. His mobile chimed.

 _I don’t mind._ _  
__If you call me angel._ _  
__I am named for an angel after all._

Crowley gaped at the screen. Oh. That. _Oh._ That was… certainly something.

_you are?_

_Have you not yet consulted the Google about my name? Most people do upon fist acquaintance._

_ill do that tonight_

Crowley did a double take and burst out laughing.

_fist acquaintance???_

_NOT FIST!_ _  
__NOT FIST!_ _  
__OH LORD! I’M SORRY!_

_screen shotting this! taking it right now!_

Aziraphale’s response came as a string of crying emojis. Crowley took pity on him and sent back a red heart. Then he proceeded to spend the rest of the day overthinking that little heart, worried that Aziraphale would read into it, worried that he would ignore it, worried most of all that Crowley had scared him off for good and he would soon be getting a politely-worded text telling him that they could no longer be gym partners.

Later that evening, Aziraphale sent back that same heart along with a message.

 _Good night, my dear fiend. Sleep well._ _  
__*I meant friend! Goodness! I despise technology!_

Mustering up every ounce of courage he possessed, Crowley sent back a glib and debonair, _thats okay angel. ill be your fiend anytime._ Then he buried his face in a pillow and shrieked.

* * *

“Okay, I can do this.” Crowley laid down on the bench and gripped the barbell above his head. Aziraphale was running late today, something to do with a book, so Crowley had wiled away the past ten minutes just wandering around and doing some halfhearted stretches. But eventually, he succumbed to temptation and decided to find out if the past five weeks of effort had paid off at all.

Well, of course it _had_ paid off, in the form of his friendship-teetering-on-romance with Aziraphale. But Crowley would still like some actual evidence that all these exhausting hours and throbbing muscles and blistered hands and feet was actually doing something.

He breathed, planted his feet and checked his form, just as Aziraphale had taught him. Then, carefully, he pushed up the bar.

It stayed up. It _stayed up._ His arms trembled a little, but they were nowhere near in danger of collapse.

Crowley inhaled and lowered the bar to his chest. Then exhaled and raised it. His chest and arms ached, but no more than when he used the dumbbells. He grinned wildly and kept going. One rep. Two reps. If he could just get to five…

“Whoa there!” Someone grabbed the bar and yanked it back on the rack above his head. A man looked down at him, dark haired, American accent, and Crowley already despised him. “You looked like you were having some trouble. Need a spot?”

“I really don’t,” Crowley sniped. “I’m waiting for someone.” _So you can go ahead and fuck right off now._

“Well, I don’t see them here,” Wrong Man said. He leaned over Crowley, entirely too close, and flashed a smile with too-perfect teeth. “Nice to meet you. I’m Gabriel.”

“And I’m _waiting for someone,”_ Crowley emphasized.

The man laughed and cracked some kind of a joke about feisty redheads. Crowley wasn’t listening. Maybe another time, five weeks ago, he might have humored the man and taken the time to find out if his looks made up for his personality, but that seemed like a lot of time to waste. Time that could be better spent with Aziraphale.

Crowley pushed up off the bench and leaned over to gather up his water bottle. “Bench is yours. Have at it.”

“I was hoping to talk to you, actually.” The man, Gabe or whatever, trailed after him as Crowley stalked away. “I’m new in town, I just moved here from America…”

“Couldn’t tell. Your accent is impeccable.”

“Thank you! Anyway, I was hoping I could find someone to show me around, and _you_ seem just… well, the moment I laid my eyes on you, I couldn’t look away.”

“Let me stop you right there,” Crowley said, still resolutely not looking at Wrong Man. “I’m busy. I’m not interested. And also, I’m taken.”

“Aw sweetheart, are you just saying that to scare me away?”

Oh, Crowley _really_ wanted to punch him. “No, I have a boyfriend! I… angel!”

Aziraphale had shown up, with the kind of impeccable timing that could inspire Crowley to believe in a higher power. He very nearly ran across the gym and yanked Aziraphale into a hug, which he had not been expecting to judge by how he stiffened.

“Wha—Crowley?”

“Sorry for this, just play along,” Crowley whispered and planted a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. He turned to flash a grin at Gabe or whatever, arm snugly wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “As you can see, my _boyfriend_ has just shown up. So if you’ll be kind enough to leave me alone…”

“Aziraphale?”

_“Gabriel?”_

“You… you two know each other?” Crowley blurted out, whipping his head from one to the other.

“I’m his boss,” Gabriel said.

“Ex-boss,” Aziraphale said. He looked at Crowley and clarified. “We worked for the same publishing company here in London a few years ago.”

“Oh.” Crowley shot Gabriel a venomous look. “So, not exactly new in town then.”

Gabriel winced and covered it up with a sheepish laugh. “So, um. Aziraphale, how have you been? That book thing still working out?”

“Book binding and restoration,” Aziraphale said, with a weariness that suggested he had needed to repeat this many times. “Yes, it’s going very well, indeed. Despite what our higher-ups believed, the future is not _all_ in technology and ebooks. There is still a very strong market for those who like to hold the actual book in hand.”

“Right, right.” Gabriel looked between the two of them, and Crowley could just _see_ him trying to do the math in his head, trying to work out how the two of them could possibly be _together_ together. Crowley wrapped himself a little more firmly around Aziraphale and planted his chin on his shoulder, for all the world like he had every right to be there. He hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t be too mad at him.

“Well. I should… get back to my workout.” Gabriel nodded to Crowley. “Nice to meet you. Also, Aziraphale, I want you to keep in mind that you can always come back to your old job, we’re more than happy to bring you into the fold…”

“Thank you, but I’m quite happy as I am,” Aziraphale said, shutting him down so politely and irrevocably that Gabriel could do little but smile awkwardly and retreat in the other direction. Crowley waited until he was gone before he began to unwind his arms from Aziraphale… then paused when Aziraphale reached up to grasp his hands.

“Boyfriend?”

“Nrgk,” Crowley said. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Sorry about that. Was just trying to get him to leave.”

“So you didn’t mean it then?”

“No, well, maybe, if…”

Crowley let the stumbling words trail off as Aziraphale slowly turned in his arms, turned so they were face to face. Aziraphale’s hands slid up slowly to rest on his upper arms, his pathetic little biceps that could barely lift the barbell, and cradled him like he was the most precious thing on earth. Crowley’s hands gravitated of their own accord to Aziraphale’s love handles, marveling at how much he liked those soft folds, how much he wanted to bury his face in that belly and never come up for air.

“I had hoped,” Aziraphale said, halting and uncertain, watching Crowley very carefully, “that perhaps… this was where it was all leading to? But if I’m wrong, you’d best tell me now before I ruin everything.”

“You couldn’t ruin it,” Crowley said. He was trembling, scared out of his mind, but he planted his feet and breathed and told himself firmly that he was _not_ going to muck this part up. “It was already ruined the moment I met you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, a hopeful smile lighting up his face. “Oh. Crowley…”

Crowley kissed him. He distinctly heard someone wolf whistle, maybe a smattering of applause, but couldn’t spare a thought for the scene they were making in the middle of the main floor among the weights and machines. There was only Aziraphale, sighing against his lips, warm and happy and wiggly in his arms, perfect in all the ways that mattered.

Much later at his next doctor's appointment, Crowley would tell Agnes Nutter all about the positive changes he had made to his eating habits and his workout routine. And when she brought up the usual questions about his sexual activity and partners, he wouldn’t be able to hold back a soppy smile as he said, “Funny you should mention that…”

**Author's Note:**

> Now that I’ve actually read the book (finally!), I feel like my interpretation of the characters is becoming a weird amalgamation of book and show. My Crowley is a perpetual bundle of nerves and anxiety, far too concerned with what other people think of him, and therefore spends most of his time hiding behind his Must Be Cool persona (on a good day he manages to fool most everyone except for his angel). And my Aziraphale is just a bit snooty, just a bit haughty, strong in his convictions but also uncertain of his place in the world, and he finds solace in being kind and good and helping other people (also Very Gay, we can’t forget that part).


End file.
